Authors: Arthur Byron Cover
The forces attacking Earth inexorably drew the capsule upon its journey, refusing to relinquish their hold even as the husk of obsolete parts reached a section of space which was the threshold of the eternal past and the infinite future. Vast, superintelligent beings composed of nebulous matter examined the capsule from their vantage point near the time of the universe’s passing. They perceived its birth from the parts acquired from junkyards and they deduced its innumerable destinies. Then they deemed it insignificant and turned their attention to worthier matters. Probes from other races transmitted information back to computers founded on principles entirely different than those for computers on Earth. Before the alien scientists could decide if they wanted to deflect the capsule and examine it personally, the forces which had already ensnared it pulled it out of the probe’s reach.
The capsule moved past (and perhaps through) magnificent sights. Galaxies spun majestically, seeming to throw away the stars of the spirals like luminescent dust. The corpse of an alien cosmonaut—the size of an elephant, with tentacled legs and clawed hands, its body perfectly preserved in its gray spacesuit—floated above the capsule; it spun toward a swirling galaxy, on its remorseless way to a destination it could never know. A passing quasar cast the capsule into a pool of stark whiteness—but only briefly, for the quasar quickly moved onto a point in space that existed a million years in the future. A disruption in the fabric of the universe—perhaps the implosion of a planet accidentally destroyed by its inhabitants—created a startling array of rainbow colors that, however the duration was defined, was rather succinct. Later, or what must be randomly defined as later, a star exploded into a nova, creating what was (from the capsule’s point of view) the barest flickering of light.
The mists unerringly guided the capsule through another disruption of space and time, and suddenly the capsule was in a sky of blazing crimson clouds, above a magnificently barren world with an array of huge colorful moons beyond the reach of the howling winds.
The sleeping passengers in the capsule did not know it, but their journey through the cosmos had come to an abrupt conclusion. They had arrived on the planet Mongo, the seat of the ruler of the universe!
R
ADIO
waves burst like joyous elves from the stronghold, recording the picture of the space capsule on the console screen. The capsule moved from a red field to a purple one.
An obsequious, vaguely electronic (but definitely human) voice said, “O illustrious Master, second only to the Majestic One himself, I either regret or am overjoyed to report an unknown object imaged in the Imperial vortex, depending upon how you greet this unfortunate or wonderful news.”
An unconcerned voice devoid of warmth or pity replied, “You know I disdain such ridiculous value judgments. You should report the news as indifferently as I greet it, O Slug without a Name. What is the distance of the object?”
“Thou art correct, as usual, O Klytus. The object is now parallel to Starfield Zygma Twelve.”
A hand sheathed in gold thoughtfully clanked against a chin protected by a gold mask. “Test object for life waves.”
The obsequious one pressed buttons, causing the console to order that all manner of impulses be sent out to report upon the interior of the capsule. Green and red bulbs flashed on and off in a pattern discernible only to an expert, and a white bulb blinked with a quick, steady rhythm. After a few moments, the underling said, “Readings are positive, but I truly regret to report that our transmission waves cannot completely penetrate the strange alloy of the shell; therefore the form and number of those inside is unknown. A tentative reading of the brain waves registers an approximate Mong-Scale Three.”
“Continue imaging,” said the cold voice without a trace of interest. “I’ll report this to His Imperial Majesty.” There was a rustle of robes and the scraping of metal as Klytus approached a vid-com. For a few moments he was rather obsequious himself. Then, his conference concluded, he turned to the underling at the console.
“I hasten to inform you, in the desolate hope it pleases you, that the object is entering our control range, approaching the Sea of Fire . . .”
“Bring it through safely. Land it.”
Like a ghost suddenly weighed down with a metallic form, but without the corresponding lack of movement and grace, the capsule glided through the colorful air of Mongo. Far beyond the planet and its satellites spun a vicious cosmic whirlpool of stray matter of all sorts—including the fragments of other planets. Mongo and its moons lay in the calm eye of this whirlpool, as immobile as the ancient astrologers had envisioned the Earth. The debris was a continuous, if slightly erratic source of mineral wealth; all too frequently that debris, drawn by Mongo’s tremendous gravity after having been checked by the conflicting gravities of the moons, plummeted to the surface, resulting in a barren world of jagged rocks and deep canyons and jutting mountain ranges and large craters, cast in various shades of yellow and brown with a few ripples of red and blue. No ecological system could long survive the onslaught of space debris, but somehow, in the dim forgotten past, a settlement had colonized Mongo; and somehow the ruler of Mongo had come to rule the moons as well. And so this was the forbidding world the capsule carrying Flash, Dale, and Zarkov floated over. Gradually it slowed until it came to a complete stop, and then the invisible rays controlled from afar set it down roughly on a plateau of stone.
Inside the capsule, shaken by the landing, Flash stirred. Catching a glimpse of the colorful sky through the porthole, he rubbed his eyes and exhaled a great gasp of air. He unbuckled his seat belt and turned his attention to Dale, who, pale and trembling, muttered something in a sensuous whisper. Her nostrils were flared and she was breathing heavily in a manner that elicited Flash’s interest. Smiling wryly as he thought of the Sleeping Beauty myth, wondering what her reaction would be if he brought it to the proper conclusion here in the capsule, he gently patted her cheeks. Her eyelids fluttered. “Wake up, we’re okay,” he said softly. “Remember me, remember Flash? We’re on the ground—I think.” A glance through another porthole revealed purple vapors slowly rising toward a dark blue sky.
Dale stretched her arms and legs like a debauched feline; then she realized her dream was over and her eyes popped open. She was completely awake. Her movements and facial expressions lost their sensual mannerisms. “We back home?”
Flash shook his head. “I don’t think so.”
Zarkov chuckled softly as he released himself from his seat belt. He tentatively walked about the console on shaky legs. When he looked through the portholes, his eyes glittered as if he were about to be showered with gold. “God knows where we are. I don’t even know when.”
“What kind of scientist are you?” exclaimed Dale.
Zarkov shrugged. “My apologies, but I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”
“It could be worse,” said Flash. “We could be stranded in outer space with a scientist who earned his Ph.D. in food chemistry.” He pressed the button of his digital wrist watch. “It’s ten after nine.” He scowled, puzzled, and tilted his head toward Zarkov. “The same date?”
After sticking his hands into his jacket pocket, Zarkov placed them on his stomach. He laughed again, this time with zest. “You can throw that away, my friend. We’ve traveled through hyperspace. If the differential equations of the leading mathematicians of the twentieth century are correct, then the curvatures of space have altered both our perceptions
and the realities
of time. As you know, time is only nature’s device to keep everything from happening at once. You must understand, Earth time and distance may have no meaning in our situation. Our home may exist a million years in the future.”
“You’re insane!” exclaimed a wide-eyed Dale. She brought a tiny hand to her pale throat, as if to prevent herself from being choked. Though she was clearly attempting to regard Zarkov’s opinions as nonsense, the view through the porthole directly in front of her caused her to ponder certain existential questions from which she could no longer escape. Shaking her head, she whispered, “You’re insane . . .”
Flash gently placed his hand on her shoulder. “Okay, let’s lay off that now. At least he’s landed us somewhere in one piece.”
“Thank you, but I didn’t,” said Zarkov. He ran his hand over the console, caressing it. “My landing program never fired. Someone brought us here under ground control.”
Flash whistled silently, his mind suddenly bursting with excitement and concepts. He controlled himself. “You’re saying there are people here . . .”
“There’s
something
here.” Unable to conceal his pleasure, Zarkov stared at Flash. He felt himself extremely fortunate to be with a man who, however reluctantly at first, boldly faced the unknown.
He doesn’t know it yet, but he thrives on adventure.
“Let me check the atmosphere.”
The scientist twisted a valve, pressed a button. Studying the readouts on the screen, he pursed his lips, then frowned as he took into account certain variables. “Plenty of oxygen. We’re in luck. Munson, my, uh, assistant, still had some sewing to do on the spacesuits.”
Suddenly Dale gurgled something which would have been a shriek if she had been able to open her mouth. She pointed frantically at a porthole.
Zarkov exclaimed, “Zounds!”
For they were being approached by a contingent (of men? of aliens?) decked out in militaristic gear, with broadswords dangling at their sides. So bulky and heavy was their armor that their walk was awkward, almost humorous, though the trio inside the capsule did not doubt for a moment that the soldiers could move quickly in certain types of combat situations; only the walking was difficult. The armor itself bore some resemblance to that of medieval Japan, though the gold masks, representing a skull with stark eyes in large hollowed circles, with a black cloak hanging from the upper portion of the mouth and reaching just below the neck, emphasized the alienness of the culture advancing upon them. Surrounding the gold skulls were curious arced helmets, with curved thick bars crossing the black cloaks like shields and with a circular insignia above the forehead. The armor was a red lamellar construction, all of it cut to the same size; the identical build lent the soldiers an eerie appearance; if they were not in reality of a uniform species, then they had willingly relinquished all individuality when they joined this outfit, thus intensifying their aura of menace. Portions of the lamellar were reinforced by gold—conelike structures protected the upper arms and slightly different designs thrust outward from the shoulders, perhaps denoting differences in rank. Rectangular bars were laid across both sides of the chests and backs, leaving space for intricate patterns; there were more patterns on the lower portions of their lamellar robes; they wore gold boots and gold kneepads—but the relentlessness of their approach, totally devoid of hesitancy, indicated these soldiers would not fear pain or death if all their reinforcements and lamellar suddenly disappeared into another dimension.
“My God,” said Zarkov in a numbed voice. “Do you realize what a moment this is?”
“Yuh,” replied Flash dumbly.
“I mean, we’re the first human beings to ever see extraterrestrials!” said Zarkov.
“Oh no!” said Dale in a whimpering voice. “That means they’ll want to capture me and do all sorts of atrocious things to my body.” She looked at Flash with pleading eyes. “I told you: I’ve given up that sort of thing.”
“Huh? What do you mean?” said Zarkov.
“It’s just like in those spicy pulp stories my father used to read aloud to me,” said Dale. “Whenever an attractive, well nigh irresistible woman such as myself encounters creatures from another part of the universe, they’re overcome by this inexplicable urge to take her—brutally!—in the hopes that she’ll bear their children.”
Flash could not restrain an outburst of laughter. “I’m afraid you misunderstood those stories, Dale. The aliens were only attracted to women wearing aluminum bras.”
“Ooh! Wouldn’t that pinch?” asked Dale.
“In my opinion it would be most uncomfortable,” said Zarkov. “In any case, my dear, I don’t think you have to worry about being ravished—at least by aliens. Biological urges and cultural conditioning preclude, shall we say, a chitinous seven-foot-tall insect creature from finding a hairy warm-blooded mammal attractive. And even if those approaching us are human, I daresay they are of a culture enlightened sufficiently to have a total respect for the sanctity of the female body.”
“In other words, Dale, he’s saying the universe is too sophisticated a place for you to have to worry about being taken against your will,” said Flash. “The chances are your adventures will be much more exotic.”
“Absolutely,” said Zarkov. “Let’s forget these hoary clichés of pulp fiction and come to grips with the sheer inventiveness of reality, you know, like a genuine Chekhovian character. We should greet these extraterrestrials with friendship.”
“I agree, Doctor,” said Flash. “But shouldn’t we proceed with caution?”
“Absolutely.”
“Stay close to her, Zarkov. I’ll climb out first.” Upon reaching the door, Flash turned to Dale and said, “I liked the ‘well nigh irresistible’ part the best.” Without waiting for her reaction, he turned the wheel which depressurized the door and allowed it to open. He pushed it and leaped to the ground, four feet below.
Flash was immediately infused with a wonder and fear he had not experienced since childhood. Forgotten were the mysterious energy attacks on Earth, the forced flight into space, the advancing extraterrestrials. He even forgot his love for Dale as he stared at a sky filled with conflicting layers of colors. One section was mauve, another pink, another emerald; and beyond those layers were hints of successive layers, laden with debris dropped from the cosmic whirlpool. Bright orbs radiating heatless white light revealed the swirling whirlpool mists, a marriage of Heaven and Hell. But most impressive of all, to Flash’s way of thinking, were the visible moons of Mongo, one green, another icy, a third fiery, a fourth barren, and the last enshrouded in clouds, moons hanging like gigantic ornaments. The visual information, of which the portholes had revealed but a fraction, staggered Flash, and he found himself leaning against the doorway. He wiped sweat from his forehead and concentrated on maintaining a sense of place. It was difficult to believe that any rock of whatever size could remain steady in the midst of such cosmic turbulence. Yet it was undeniably so.